


Trashmouth

by tinymarvels (Captain_of_the_sass)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Lives, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, the power of gay brings him back to life, with a side of crazy shit, you get the happy ending but you gotta work for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_of_the_sass/pseuds/tinymarvels
Summary: “Please, just. Just let me stay here.” Richie staggers forward and latches onto Eddie, holds tightly.If he could just hold on, if he could just refuse to let go, maybe he could make this real. Maybe he could- who fucking knows- could do something.Don’t let go. Don’t let go.*****When you stare into the Deadlights they look right back into you. And sometimes, they stay with you.





	1. In Case You Don't Live Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title from the song of the same name by Ben Platt

He’s fine. Honestly, it’s. It’s fine. What’s he gonna do, mope forever? Ha. Richie doesn’t mope. He smiles, so wide it feels like his face is splintering apart, but that’s fine. He’ll be alright. He moves on autopilot, his mouth running as usual but this time Richie’s not in the driver’s seat. It’s like his body is still in survival mode, only this time it’s for a different reason.

_ Don’t let them see. Don’t let them know. _

_ They’ll hate you. _

That motherfucking clown is gone but the fears it stirred up in him have been left behind. They must know something, must at least know that Richie’s still aching a little, because in passing the Losers each seem to subconsciously impart some small gesture of comfort. Bev’s hand giving his little squeeze, Mike patting his back, Ben bumping their shoulders together. Richie can’t help but notice how, during the days that drip by so slowly- the days marked by Eddie being…being _ gone _ \- The group seems to be in orbit around him. Like Richie has somehow temporarily become the center of their collectively fucked up universe. He’s used to that, kind of. Standing on a stage, becoming the focal point. But Richie’s not quite used to this new method of telling time that he can’t seem to shake. Everything fits into three categories: There’s _ Eddie _ . There’s _ The Forgetting _ . And then there’s the _ After _. He hates this; hates this Afterward where the jokes that bubble up from his throat scrape like sandpaper on the way out. It’s okay, though.

He’s fine.

Richie is the first to leave. He thought it might be Bill, because in so many things Bill is always the first to get the rest of them moving. But one day turns into two, then three. And God, Richie just can’t. Every corner of Derry holds a memory of the one person he wants to see most in the world. He stalks their old haunts and his brain screams that Eddie should be _ right there _, and if he concentrates hard enough he can almost jump back to that time, back to being thirteen and hearing that voice, seeing that face. Young and soft with that stupid adorable nose and that stupid fucking fanny pack. He says goodbye to the Losers at the townhouse, cracks a smile and teases Ben and Bev about the ridiculously cute “come kiss me” eyes they keep sending each other, and tries not to think about how unfair it is that Eddie’s suitcase is still upstairs right where he had left it.

On his way out of town he makes a pit stop. The bridge is just how he remembers it, yet somehow completely different. A little bit older. A little bit worn down. Just like Richie is. The knife feels heavy in his hand, the weight of it mirroring the suffocating weight on his chest. And finally, the breath he’d been holding all this time- all this _After_\- seeps out. He lets the tears stream down. He lets it all go.

_He’s been playing Street Fighter for an hour now and fuck, but he keeps getting his ass kicked because every once in a while he gets distracted, watching the way Eddie is playing beside him, the way Eddie is biting his lip in concentration, and there’s this flutter in Richie’s chest that he can’t quite explain, he can’t tear his eyes away-_

_A foot in his face and a hammock rocking with Eddie’s every move and Richie forgets his comic book, forgets everything but the warmth of another body, of Eddie’s skin beneath his hand-_

_There’s a smile and a laugh, and Eddie honest to god snorts like a piglet, and Richie just laughs even harder. He calls Eddie “piglet” for a straight week after that just to see the way his face turns red and-_

_A boy on a bike, covered in dirt and blood, glowing in the sun, and so _**_so_**_ beautiful-_

_“Fuck you, okay, I have asthma you dick-“ _ _ “Aw, poor baby, you need me to do mouth to mouth?”-_

_ A man, all grown up, and a flood of memories he can’t believe he forgot- _

_ The feel of a warm hand in his- slightly smaller than his own- arm wrestling and laughing and it’s fun, but mostly it’s just an excuse to _ ** _touch_ ** _ \- _

_ “You’re braver than you think.”- _

_ A smile, then a gasp, then wide eyes staring at nothing and fuck, EDDIE EDDIE EDDIE EDDIE EDDIE ED- _

“I can’t believe you fucking died on me, you motherfucker,” Richie chokes between hitching breaths, between the tears that bleed down his cheeks. He strokes a finger over the freshly carved letter E and smiles, a jagged cracked up little thing that he knows probably looks all wrong on his face. Richie swallows down another breath and wipes his eyes with dirty hands. _That’s how you get pinkeye, _a very Eddie voice says in his head. Slowly, just as he had packed his suitcase, Richie packs it all up- all the memories, all the pain, and buries it down. Plants it deep and covers over it.

_I love you, _Richie says to his first love, _I love you, goodbye._

He’s fine.


	2. I've been alone (for a while)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the song Bleed Out by Isak Danielson

He’s not fine. Richie has about a million missed calls from his agent when he gets back to his apartment, but rather than answering them Richie drops his suitcase in the doorway and crawls into bed, shoes and all. His head has been hurting ever since he crossed the Derry city limits, a throbbing pain he can’t seem to shake. When he slips off to sleep, he dreams of Eddie's unblinking eyes and three blinding lights.

He wakes up the next morning to the sound of a new message. It’s from Mike, a simple text saying _Haven’t forgotten us, have you? _To which Richie answers, naturally, _Who the fuck are you?_ Turns out it must have been a group message, because the replies to that are numerous and scolding. Richie assures them that yes, he does remember them and his ridiculously crazy circus-based life trauma. Bill, who’s apparently on his way home now, promises the same. The conversation stays nice, light, and Richie sincerely hopes he gets to keep this. Gets to keep them, in any way he can. A half hour and a cup of coffee later Richie bids them farewell for now, and heads off to shower. 

He’s hoping it’ll wake him up a little because somehow, he woke up feeling even worse than before. The headache is still there, Richie can feel it pulsing behind his eyes. He closes them and tilts his head up, lets the warm water wash over him, but even that can’t relax him. Behind his eyelids Richie sees those childhood memories playing like a movie reel, all bright and golden under the sunshine of his youth. When he opens his eyes the bathroom seems dark and dull in comparison. Richie turns off the tap, wraps one towel around his waist, and drapes another around his shoulders. He should call his agent. He should do some damage control to try and fix his reputation after the utter shitshow he’d put on what feels like a lifetime ago. He can’t imagine it; can’t imagine getting back onstage in a world where Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t exist. _ You did it before, _ he reminds himself, _ you barely even remembered him and you were just fine. _ But Richie knows that’s a lie. Even when everything else slipped through his fingers there was always those sensory memories; the way Eddie’s voice went high and thin when he was annoyed. The way his hair was always smooth and parted and the way the dark strands at the nape of his neck sometimes stood up _ just so. _ And _ fuck _but Richie’s crying again, and he wonders if this hurt will ever go away, if the feeling that he’s missing a massive chunk of himself will ever fade. For now he clutches at the counter and breathes through it, riding out the trembles.

“Dammit,” he breathes between clumsy gasps, “_DAMMIT!_”

Eddie didn’t have to love him back. He didn’t. Richie would have been happy enough just knowing that he was alive and safe and just _ Eddie. _But he’s not, and it’s not fair. And now these feelings, this love, will fester inside him for another twenty-seven years. For a lifetime. Forever. And he’ll never know what Eddie’s answer might have been.

Richie looks at his ugly mug- blurry as it is- in the fogged-up mirror and sighs. Fumbles for his glasses and his phone. He’s good at being okay when he’s definitely not. It’s a very special talent. So, he bucks up and gives his agent a call.

“Jesus Christ,” the man shouts in his ear, and with a wince Richie puts the guy on speaker, “I was getting ready to send out a search party or something,”

“Aw,” Richie drawls, tugging on some pants, “I knew you loved me.”

“Shut up, I am furious with you. Do you have any idea the shitstorm you left behind when you went off on your fucked-up hometown sabbatical? I am up to my neck here! Two of your upcoming shows want to back out and the resort in Vegas has been calling nonstop, they want to talk to you personally to make sure you’re not going to have another onstage breakdown. _ Tell me _you’re over whatever the hell that was.”

“I’m good, man, I’m good.”

“No more impromptu field trips?”

“Cross my heart.” Richie promises. They manage to scrape together something of a game plan; a press release followed by a long somewhat rambling apology/explanation that Richie posts to his twitter. Family emergency. So very sorry to cancel the next couple shows and everyone is welcome to have their tickets refunded or exchanged. It’s a shitload of money down the drain but it’s doable. Or it will be, after some groveling to the events coordinator in Vegas. With his next two trips cancelled Richie has...well, a lot of time on his hands. He spends the rest of the day basically laying around being a lazy piece of shit. He watches TV. Eats half a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. Occasionally tosses a text into the Losers groupchat. And the whole time, he is hyper aware of the fact that his apartment is, as always, perpetually empty. Richie climbs into bed that night and just lays there feeling the vast chasm of loneliness. He wonders what will happen in the future. If Mike will travel like he talked about. If Bill will make more movies, and if Ben and Beverly’ll really make it work. If they’ll get married one day. He wonders what will happen if the Losers start to ask why he never seems to date anyone. What will happen if they realize they can’t remember him ever having a girlfriend longer than a week.

“_You’ll disgust them_,” a voice says, and Richie bolts upright with a curse. At the foot of his bed a mirror image of himself smiles, mouth full of sharp white teeth. Behind his glasses his eyes are cloudy and dead.

“Holy shit-“Richie blurts, scrambling away until his back thumps against the headboard.

“_You’ll disgust them, just like you would have disgusted _ ** _Eddie_ ** _ ,” _ His doppelganger croons, propping a knee on the mattress and pulling himself up, prowling closer, _“He trusted you, he thought you were friends, and the whole time you were having those ** thoughts**_.” The last word is spat out, a dirty thing, as a hand wraps around his throat and _ squeezes. _

In the moment where Richie wakes with a scream, he swears he catches a glimpse of three bright lights before they disappear.

* * *

“You ever feel paranoid. Like…it’s not totally over?” Beverly asks tentatively. The entire group is video chatting, and she brings it up after a lull in the conversation. “I mean, I know It’s dead. I know it, in my heart. But still…sometimes it’s like I’m still waiting for It to come back.”

_I know what you mean_, Richie thinks. What he says is, “What do you want? A death certificate?”

“Certainly wouldn’t mind having it in writing,” Bill says with a wry smile.

“Can’t argue with that,” Ben replies, and there’s a flurry of chuckles. Richie can’t help but notice that wherever Ben and Bev are at the moment, they’re together. There’s a twinge in his chest.

“Maybe I’ll draw up some documents, just for you guys,” Richie says. Then, in a grand voice, he narrates, “_To whom it may concern, this is to hereby state that the evil clown of Derry is officially dead AF.”_

They talk about nothing after that. Everything and nothing. Bill’s latest book is going well (ending still to be determined), Ben and Bev are looking at buying a boat because they are definitely crazy, Mike has officially started his free-from-Derry world tour, and. Well. That’s all there is. There’s a silence that hangs in the air, a space in which- in another life- maybe Stan would have talked about his wife. Or Eddie would have reminded them all to get plenty of vitamin C. But in the here and now, they aren’t there- and all there is, is the barest pause of an empty breath. A faltering in the banter and a tightening in the smiles on everyone’s faces. A point of time where five people miraculously and wordlessly experience the same thought, the same aching reminder of loss.

“Talk to you later, nerds,” Richie says when they finally sign off, and he tries not to imagine Stan saying _I love you guys, _or Eddie saying _Oh _I’m _the nerd? That’s a laugh._ He hangs up, just sits on his couch, and _breathes_. This is the After, and there’s no going back, only the painful drag forward.

He doesn’t want to go to bed that night. Richie can’t shake the image of his own face staring back at him with those blank white eyes, the sensation of having the life squeezed out by his own hand. Instead he camps out on the couch with his favorite fleece throw, the TV droning on with the volume turned low. His head is pounding again, and when he sleeps the pounding sensation follows him. It's emphasized by an earth-shaking noise, the beating of a fist against a door.

"No," Richie says, "No. Nope, absolutely not." Because that stupid white door is here, with those stupid words written on it, and he is not dealing with that a third time. No siree.

Richie stares at the door.

The words _ Not Scary _ stare back at him. Whatever's on the other side keeps knocking- then, with a long drawn out creak, the door starts to open. It's the closet again.

"I said _ no _ ," Richie shrieks. He's about to grab the damn thing and slam it shut when suddenly there's a hand on his back and a hard _ shove _ that sends him staggering into the dark. The door bangs shut behind him. In the blackness there is only the sound of Richie's own frantic breathing and the rustling of the clothes hanging around him. He's still panting when the laughing starts, quiet at first but building into a hysterical unhinged wail that has Richie's hair standing on end. He's not alone.

"Jesus Christ," he hisses. _ There's gotta be something, he has something, in his pockets- _ Richie pulls out his phone and blindly searches for the button until the screen lights up.

“Oh godammit,” he rasps, “You again, you fucker?”

It’s him- or himself- the dead-eyed Richie. He laughs and laughs until, with a sickening snap, his head twists around and falls right off his shoulders.

“Aw what the _hell!_” Richie yelps, jolting back as the head rolls to his feet, “Why always with the creepy severed heads!”

A dark fluid bubbles up from the gaping hole left in Not-Richie’s body, seeps out from Not-Richie’s eyes and gaping mouth. The floor is covered at an alarming rate, and Richie realizes with a start that the strange fluid is blood_._ _Eddie would totally be freaking out_, he thinks, _so unsanitary. _He can almost hear Eddie’s voice, can almost hear him calling, calling-

“Richie,”

Everything stops. The blood. The laughter. It all freezes. Everything but that voice calling his name.

“Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. He can take a lot, okay? He can take the guilt, and the nightmares, and the…whatever the fuck headless horseman shit this is. But he can’t take _that._ Can’t take _Eddie._

“You have to stop, Rich,” Eddie’s voice tells him gently, “You have to stop this,”

“Stop what,” Richie sobs, “No. No, you stop. You’re not here. You’re dead! _ You’re dead! _”

He feels a ghost of an embrace, and when he opens his eyes the Deadlights are shining on him.

“Don’t look at them,” Eddie’s voice says, “Close your eyes, don’t look.”

When he wakes, Richie swears he can still feel the faint impression of arms around him. He sits up, a curtain of drowsiness still clinging to him. Yawning hugely he fumbles around on the coffee table for his glasses. The second he slides them into place he regrets it.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The words _ Very Scary _ are written on the door that has somehow appeared inside his apartment.


	3. Can't see straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the land of the living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from It's Alright by Mother Mother
> 
> Will Richie ever stop falling asleep in the middle of important shit? It is a mystery

After a very sensible freak-out in which Richie pinched himself, threw the TV remote at the door, and let loose a powerful string of very creative curses, he gave in and video called the rest of the Losers.

“Please tell me you guys see this too,” he whispered, holding his phone up so the camera was pointed at the door. He heard a collective intake of breath from Bev, Bill, and Ben. Mike was currently unreachable, and Richie recalled from his last text that he had been camping at some national park with terrible service (Camping, man? Seriously? _Why?_).

“Oh my God,” Beverly breathed.

“So I’m not crazy?” Richie asked.

“No,” Bill answered, “I see it.”

“But _ he’s dead, _” Richie whined, “How many times are we gonna have to kill this shit?”

“Richie where is that?” Ben asked, “Where are you?”

“I’m in my apartment, dude, where else would I be! Oh fuck. Oh shit. I’m freaking out here, guys.”

“Richie don’t open it,” Ben ordered.

“Way ahead of you, thanks buddy.”

“Okay, I’m getting a flight-“ Bill says, and Richie laughs hysterically.

“Dude, you’re literally on the other side of the country, I’m going to be Pomeranian chow by the time you get here!”

“Pomer- what? What are you-”

“It’s a thing, okay! A thing.” Richie paced wildly, refusing to take his eyes off the Door of Mysterious Origins. The handle rattled. Richie let loose an absolutely totally manly yelp. He could hear Bill, Beverly, and Ben calling his name.

The knob starts to turn and Richie drops his phone in his hurry to brace himself against the aged white wood. Distantly he hears the Losers shouting as he pushes with all his might to keep the door closed. It works, for a second, but then he loses his footing and all at once the door moves, smacking him in the face as it swings open. The force of it sends Richie to the floor, glasses completely askew and he stares up in open-mouthed horror at the thing in the doorway. 

At first it looks like Stanley, young just like Richie remembers him. Same mop of curls. Same soft brow. But the eyes- the eyes are dead and milky.

"You forgot about me," Stan croaks, taking a step closer, "I needed you guys...and where were you?" 

"No," Richie babbles, "No, that's- Stan, no-" he has the letter. It's on top of the fridge in his kitchen, because Richie couldn't bring himself to throw it away. Stan didn't blame them. He didn't, he-

"WHERE WERE YOU," Stan howls. The voice is distorted and cuts in and out like static. The body in front of Richie starts to bubble underneath the skin, pulsing like the insides are boiling. It melts down, shapes itself into something new. Something worse.

“Why you,” Richie practically begs, “Why does it always have to be you?”

“Because,” Eddie says simply, “This is your fault.” He has a hand resting just below the gaping wound in his sternum, blood blooming into the material of his shirt and dripping down, _down_, "If I hadn't wasted my time on rescuing you, if I had just let It _have_ you...I would still be alive, Richie.”

“Eds, I-“

“You what, Richie?” Eddie asks. He morphs once more, and in a blink he’s thirteen again, with that grin and that ridiculous cast on his arm, “You love me? Dude. _ That’s so gross. _”

The words are a knife in Richie’s chest.

“What are you?” The voice of that boy from the arcade- Bowers’ cousin- whispers in his ear, “A fa-“

“SHUT UP!” Richie screams.

Eddie laughs and laughs. His voice saying _ That’s so gross _ plays on an endless shitty loop.

“Shut up. Eddie wouldn’t- Eddie would never say that.” Richie glares at the blank-eyed Not-Eddie _ thing _ . “Eddie would never say that. You’re not him. _ You’re not him. _” With an almighty shove Richie pushes the thing back through the door and slams it shut. The apartment goes silent, and nothing more seems to happen.

Still, Richie doesn’t relax much after that. He finds a nice corner on the complete opposite side of the room and just watches, waiting for _ Very Scary _to spit out something else.

“How was your first week back in New York, Richie?” he mutters to himself, “Oh, it was great! I got choked out by my evil twin, was _literally_ trapped in the closet, and I got a visit from two of my dead best friends. They look great, by the way. Afterlife has really spiced up their look.” He chokes on a hysterical half-laugh, half-sob. The Losers are on their way. The call had apparently started to cut out once the door had opened, mostly letting through only a few errant shouts. Richie hates the way he feels utterly relieved knowing his secret is safe. _Your dirty little secret. _Richie wishes he could blot that sing-songing voice out of his brain.

Bill should be getting in by the afternoon; his flight should only take about six hours. Ben and Beverly had a harder time finding something last minute, so who the hell knows when they’ll make it. They had managed to get into contact with Mike, who is apparently in the middle of buttfuck Michigan. Some big national forest. He’s on his way. They’re all on their way. But that comfort only stretches so far when Richie is here, now, all alone. He huddles in on himself, shivering, just waiting. Tired again, always tired, with a headache making his skull feel like a balloon about to pop. Every ten minutes or so there’s a text in the groupchat; one or more of the others just checking in to make sure he hasn’t been eaten by a psycho clown. Richie starts answering them with only a thumbs up emoji. He's so tired. _Don't fall asleep. Don't fall asleep._ His eyelids droop. His head wobbles. He’s not even aware that he’s dozing until he sees that face. Eddie’s smiling at him. They’re kids again, there’s nothing in the world to be afraid of, and Eddie is standing in the arcade and holding up his middle finger.

“Kicked your ass again, loser,” he says, giving Richie a playful shove, “Where’s your head at today?”

“Busy thinking about your mom; we have a date later,” Richie shoots back, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Eddie’s face do that cute little scrunch. An idea pops into Richie’s head and his mouth is moving before he even thinks too hard about it, “Hey, that reminds me!” He seizes Eddie’s hand and drags him over to the photo booth, hurrying to shove a few quarters into the slot “Come on, I need a new picture for the dating ad I’m putting out in the paper,”

“The _what_?” Eddie shrieks, “Why do I have to be in it?” yet he allows Richie to jam him into the booth and pull the curtain behind them.

“Because you’re a nerd,” Richie tells him, “And that makes me look way cooler by comparison.”

The first flash snaps when Eddie is in the middle of a very high-pitched, “_ Fuck you _.”

Richie laughs, tells him to shut up, and makes kissy faces at him until Eddie smacks him. The second picture is of Eddie mid-slap, hand against Richie’s cheek, Richie’s glasses knocked completely crooked. Richie has his eyes closed, and there’s a brilliant smile on his face.

“You’re gonna waste all the pictures!” Richie complains. He slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and smiles straight ahead, blinded by the flash of the next picture being taken. Eddie is sticking his tongue out in it. Richie retaliates by doing the same, so that when the next picture snaps they’re both in the middle of some childish contest to see who can stick their tongues out furthest. It ends when Richie holds out a finger and threatens to poke Eddie’s tongue, cackling. The last photo snaps while Eddie screams in absolute horror because _ Do you have any idea how many germs are on your hands right now? _

They kick a rock back and forth on the way home. The booth printed out two copies of their photos; Eddie has one (“What the heck am I gonna do with this?”) and Richie has the other. He holds it in his hand, afraid it might get crumpled or blown away in the wind if he sticks it in his pocket.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, “you should tell them.”

Richie makes a face. “Tell who what?” He says.

“You need to tell them,” Adult Eddie says, and he looks so sad. So pitying. It all comes back at once and _fuck _does it hurt. Because he doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want to wake up and have Eddie be gone again.

“What are you talking about?” Richie asks shakily. He’s grown up again. Old, scruffy. Tired and afraid, “Please,” he begs, “Please, just. Just let me stay here.” He staggers forward and latches onto Eddie, holds tightly. Everything’s a tidal wave of flashbacks surging around him. The streets of Derry twist and flicker through a lifetime of moments.

“I left you,” Richie babbles brokenly, “I’m sorry, _ I left you _. Don't make me leave again.”

If he could just hold on, if he could just refuse to let go, maybe he could make this real. Maybe he could- who fucking knows- could do _ something. _ Don’t let go. _ Don’t let go. _

When Richie wakes up there’s another body clutched in his arms.

* * *

“R-Richie?” a voice says, and he goes still all over. Shifts back to look at what he holds in his arms.

It’s Eddie. He looks just as he had the last time Richie saw him _for real_; dirty and pale, streaks of blood dribbling down his chin. But his eyes- his eyes are aware. They track Richie’s face, follow him.

“What’s going on?” Eddie croaks and Richie shakes his head, unable to speak for a moment.

“This isn’t real,” he manages finally, “You’re not real.”

Eddie’s eyebrows draw together like he’s having a hard time making sense of the words. He looks around, head flopping side to side a little limply. “Where is everyone? Where- Where’s Bill? Mike? Where- Where’s Pennywise?” Eddie looks hilariously, horribly, painfully, profoundly disturbed by his surroundings. “Where _are_ we?”

Richie laughs, a ragged shattered sound that forces its way out his throat. “We’re at my apartment.” He answers. He can’t be angry. He can’t fight this, not with the way this thing- whatever it is- sounds just like Eddie. Looks just like him. Feels soft and warm and _alive. _He places a hand on Eddie’s cheek. That square of gauze is still there. Still stained with blood. Richie runs his thumb gently back and forth along the edge of it. Along Eddie’s cheekbone. Eddie’s eyes widen fractionally.

“Oh, shit,” he says eloquently, hands frantically clutching at the stained red gash in his chest, “Rich, I- I _died,_” and Richie’s about to nod. About to say _Yeah, buddy. Yeah, you did_, soft and resigned and utterly hopeless. But then blood-stained fingers fumble with the buttons on that dorky polo shirt, yank it down, and suddenly Richie is staring at Eddie’s chest. Pale. Smeared with blood. Yet undeniably whole.

“What the _fuck,_” they both say simultaneously.

* * *

Richie gives the rundown of what happened after- After Eddie was- Well, after. Explains how they killed It. How the Neibolt house imploded, how the Losers bummed around the townhouse for a while, utterly exhausted. And how, finally, Richie left. Alone. He glosses over some of his weird dreams, but he has no choice but to tell Eddie about the door appearing. It is, after all, a pretty hellish elephant in the room. Eddie, understandably, freaks the fuck out about it. And about being dead. And then about being not-dead.

“I was stabbed, okay!” he shouts, gasping for breath, “Right- right in the chest! Oh god, I’m in a coma right now aren’t I? Am I in a coma? Richie, blink twice if you’re a coma-induced hallucination.” His hands grope around for an inhaler that’s no longer there and Richie can do nothing but hold him, running a soothing hand up and down over Eddie’s back as the man struggles for air.

“Come on, Eds. Breathe for me buddy, you’re okay,” it was, perhaps, the biggest lie Richie had ever told, “You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine, I’m dead!” Eddie wheezed. And Richie couldn’t hold back a weak laugh.

“Dead ‘n yet you’re still telling me off.”

“Shut up, I hate you, shut up.”

After a few more moments Eddie seemed to collect himself, breathing coming in steadier and steadier until at last he sighed. “I need a shower,” He said, “I look like a crime scene.”

Richie was reluctant to let go. Slowly, painfully, he forced himself to put some space between them. “There are a lot of jokes I could make about your mother’s vagina right now, but I’m not going to. Because I am a mature adult. Totally, one hundred percent, grown up.” 

Eddie glared. Richie grinned.

He got Eddie all set up in the bathroom, with a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants waiting on the counter for Eddie to change into. Richie left the bathroom door open a crack and sat down beside it with his back against the wall, hyper focused on the sound of Eddie moving under the spray. He kept waiting for the moment Eddie would disappear. Or turn into some crazy dead-eyed vomit-spewing monster that tries to eat him.

“Are you serious?” Eddie calls over the sound of running water, “AXE 2 in 1_ bodywash and shampoo? _You seriously use this stuff?”

“Two for the price of one!” Richie hollers back.

“This stuff smells terrible.”

“And what do you use? Coconut scent?”

“Sandalwood, motherfucker.”

They lapse into silence. Richie jolts when the shower turns off.

“Eddie?” he calls anxiously.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Still here then.

“Creepy door still shut?” Eddie checks.

“Creepy door still shut.” Richie confirms.

After a moment the bathroom opens, and his insides promptly melt. Eddie’s wearing his clothes. Eddie’s wearing his clothes and looks _ so fucking cute _. His usually perfectly parted hair is sticking up all over the place, and though Richie only has a few inches on him his clothes somehow look huge on Eddie. The square of gauze on his cheek is gone, leaving behind nothing but smooth unblemished skin. Richie stares, open-mouthed, hand making an aborted motion as if to touch. 

"Yeah; weird, huh," Eddie comments, catching Richie's gaze, "I was going to disinfect it, but. It's like nothing ever happened." Just like the wound in his chest. "Your first aid kit sucks, by the way." 

They need to call the others. He knows they do. But maybe he is crazy. Maybe they won’t see what he sees, and then what? Richie’s happy. He’s happy, he just wants to stay like this. With Eddie alive and whole. And yeah, okay, he could do without that fucking psycho door still in his apartment- _ Very Scary- _but he can deal with that, if it means Eddie gets to stay. Said door remains motionless, taunting him. Eddie catches him watching it.

“Think it’s a Pomeranian again?” he whispers, and Richie laughs.

“Who the hell knows.”

* * *

They call the others. Richie feels like his heart is in his throat as the little loading symbol spins around and around trying to connect the call. He doesn’t expect them all to answer, with Bill already on a plane and who the hell knows where the rest of them are, but he’s both pleasantly surprised and filled with dread when he sees everyone’s faces squeezed into little boxes on his laptop screen. 

“So…” he says, immediately, “Don’t freak out.” Which is, of course, followed by a series of groans. 

“Richie?” Ben asks, “What’s going on, are you okay?”

“You stopped answering your messages.” Mike tacks on. And oh. Yeah. Whoops. 

“I’m good, actually.” Richie says, “I mean, sort of. Maybe. Shit I don’t know how to- shit. This was a bad idea. It might be better if you see for yourself when you get here.”

“Richie,” Beverly says, “Honey, you’re freaking us out.” 

“Okay.” Richie replies, “Hypothetical: If I were to have, say, met with some sort of untimely demise...You would probably think you were crazy if I, like, popped up in your living room safe and sound right?”

“What are you _ talking about, _w-what’s happening?” Bill asks. He’s on a plane, looks like first class. Nice.

“Is it the door?” Mike says, “You shouldn’t stay there- go somewhere safe, wait for us to get there-”

“Guys, I’m fine!” Good lord, “I mean, as fine as I can be with some portal to evils unknown sitting right next to my TV. Look, try not to have a heart attack or something.”

“Why would we-”

Eddie leans over the back of the couch until their cheeks are nearly pressed together (close, too close) and sticks his face in front of the webcam for all to see.

“Hey guys.” he says.

Chaos. Absolute chaos. Richie doesn’t think he’s ever heard that many curse words in a fifteen second span of time in his entire life.

"This has to be a trick," one of them says; Richie's not sure who. The words stab down deep and make him flinch.

"Well," Richie answers, somewhere between a mutter and a whisper, "If it is, it's a pretty good one." 

They go through it all again; Eddie squeezes in next to him on the couch and spends the next few minutes going over everything he remembers. There’s more this time, though, and Richie feels a little sick hearing it.

“Richie was there,” Eddie is saying, “I remember him- there was a hand on his cheek. My cheek? It’s...blurry.” he glances at Richie then back to the others, “I watched him go. I watched him, and then...I don’t really remember much else. It was cold, for a while. Then the Deadlights were...it was like they were pulling me into them, and it was so _ hot _ it burned. I could hear them screaming.”

“Who?” Mike whispered.

“The other people who died. The missing kids. All of them.”

_ Other _ people. Because Eddie was one of them. One of the people who died. Richie swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Eddie made a sound like he was about to say more, but cut it off. After a second of hesitation he asked instead,

“When are you guys getting here?”

Bill expects to touch down in a couple hours. Mike just made it to the airport in Detroit, his flight takes off in forty minutes. Ben and Beverly finally secured their own flight but it’s not for a while yet. Tomorrow. They should all be here, together, by tomorrow. No one signs off until they absolutely have to; Mike when his flight finally starts boarding. Bill when his plane starts to descend. Ben and Bev when they finally tear themselves away to load the suitcases in the car, never even fully unpacked after the last trip. Richie wonders if they feel the same suffocating fear that he does, the thought that he’ll blink and Eddie will vanish again just as quickly as he returned. The silence when the call finally, reluctantly, goes dead is deafening. 

“They’re always such a delight,” Richie coos with a too-sweet grin, because he can’t take the quiet. Eddie doesn’t laugh, or even crack a smile.

“Richie,” he says softly, “When I was…” _ Dying _hangs in the air, unspoken, “I swear, I felt you with me. I couldn’t reach you, but...it was like a part of you was connected to me. A part of you was…”

There. In the place where only the dead were supposed to walk. 

Richie’s constant headache continues to throb, but he ignores it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm going to explain how Eddie came back in later chapters lmao

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically going to be my long and very self-serving fix-it fic lmao   
the ending if that movie did a number on me
> 
> I don't have any betta/editor so if you spot any spelling mistakes let me know?


End file.
